


White Noise

by Questionable_Decisions



Series: Sensory Deprivation [1]
Category: Death Note
Genre: Awkwardness, Boys Kissing, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sound Challenge, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 03:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6783025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Questionable_Decisions/pseuds/Questionable_Decisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Silence. The complete, unadulterated absence of sound. True silence does not reign here." A (possible)oneshot featuring our two favorite geniuses: featuring lots of sexual tension, accidents(as well as the resulting discoveries), and overall general pleasantness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Noise

Silence. The complete, unadulterated absence of sound. True silence does not reign here. The fans of the computers hum softly, cooling the wires and circuitry heated from overwork. There's a slight buzzing from one of the long fluorescent lights as it flickers despite being part of a newly built facility. Multiple sets of fingers type at varying speeds, different beats played out in the clacking of keys. The sound of breathing is barely audible, swallowed by the space and other ambient noises.

Two chests move in tandem, unconsciously heaving in sync due to proximity, circulating precious oxygen. The lustrous metal of the handcuffs clinks as a pale arm is extended, reaching for a teacup. It's too far away, and the rustle of fabric is heard as the man sitting next to him reaches out to grab it, caramel skin contrasting with the white porcelain of the cup. The cup is passed between them, the spidery hand taking it as pale as the bone china, and fingers brush, nails clicking against the glazed surface. If breath catches momentarily, no one acknowledges it.

Delicate fingers raise the drink to thin lips, and he sips quietly, the liquid sloshing past the rim of the cup heard despite efforts to keep the noise to a minimum. It isn't sweet enough, and sugar cubes are added in quick succession, dropping into the already saturated tea with consecutive plops. The spoon clinks, ringing like a bell in the quiet room, as it stirs, encouraging the stubborn sugar crystals to dissolve. There's further sharp, bright tinkles as the spoon is tapped against the edge of the cup, shaking off the excess viscous sweet sludge.

Once again, the drink is slurped quietly. This time, it's met with a hum of satisfaction at the taste. It reverberates softy from the throat, light vibrations producing hushed noises, loud to the man sitting adjacent. He swallows thickly in unison, though his coffee remains untouched, eyes on the other's bobbing throat. There's a sharp clattering cutting through the still air, as the distracted man's pen falls to the floor, bouncing. The chair creaks as he leans over to pick it up. He stretches, grunting almost inaudibly, reaching.

Finally, his fingers close around the pen, nails scraping across the floor. He remembers the handcuffs too late, pulling his wrist taut, chains rattling slightly. There's a startled cry somewhere above his head followed by a sharp hiss in pain. He stands abruptly, apologizing. Brown tea stains spread across the other's white shirt, saturating the thin cotton material and dripping to the floor with soft plops. It's obviously burning and uncomfortable, soft groans protesting the brush of sodden fabric over angry, sensitive skin.

With worried questions and contrite apologies, the brown haired man leads his companion out of the room. The hallway is even more silent than the other room, if possible. However, the air conditioning still wheezes overhead, punctuated by the softly buzzing electricity. The door to the bathroom creaks as it's pushed open, and the overhead lighting flickers to life. As the soaking material is peeled from flushed pale skin, it catches and sticks, before finally hanging on the chain connecting the two men with a wet plop.

The brunet swallows again as he eyes the skin, more regret spilling from his mouth. He turns on the faucet, cold water rushing out and echoing throughout the tiled room. There's a tearing noise as he rips paper towels from the dispenser, dousing them in the crisp, clear water. He gently dabs the moist towel against the drying chest, careful, drawing out quiet noises from the other. Once the last of the sticky drink has been wiped clean, lightly burned skin soothed, the towels are tossed unceremoniously into the garbage bin, plastic crinkling under the force.

Smiling softly at the man he's been taking care of, the brunet asks if he's feeling any better. Like a moody child, he shakes his head, rave hair swishing around. He's hunched over, but that isn't unusual, and the faintest pink can be seen splaying itself across his porcelain skin as he shifts from one foot to the other, pushing up the leg of his jeans with a rustle and scratching at his ankle with a bare toe. The other has a soft blush painted across his cheeks as well, barely visible, as he uncertainly offers to kiss it better, half joking, half not.

His eyes widen in surprise as he's met with mumbled acquiescence. Hardly daring to believe, he holds his breath, and it seems that the other is equally tentatively expectant. The fan whirs, the faucet drips, and neither of them look at each other. Just as it seems as if the raven haired man is about to talk his way out of it, the other takes a deep breath and leans in. He places a chaste kiss against the pale expanse of stomach, the soft smack of lips against skin echoing throughout the room.

It feels nice and soft, but they're both so self conscious and they jerk away after a moment, the atmosphere awkward, shuffling footsteps reverberating off the walls. The chain pulls them back together, momentum pulling them against each other, catching themselves from falling, bodies contacting with a thump. The thinner man huffs out a surprised exhale while his companion grunts. Tentatively, wide grey eyes look up, pupils dilated impossibly large, and they stare at each other, breath snatched away once again.

A monotone breaks the silence, hesitantly lamenting how the hot tea had burned his tongue and wondering whether it would trouble his very first friend terribly to try fixing it. The brunet is just frozen like a deer in the headlights, mind racing, foot unconsciously tapping a quick staccato in agitation. He'd think the other was joking if he'd ever known him to joke, and the offer is agonizingly tempting, he doesn't know what to do, but his foot ceases its movement as he makes his mind up.

This has been building for a while, and he's far to used to over-thinking things, so he leans in, connecting their mouths with barely a whisper of sound. They stand there for a moment, absorbing the reality of the situation, and to both their respective surprise, it's the older of the two who starts moving his lips first, soft smacking sounds coming from where their mouths are joined. After a few moments, the other parts his lips and it's _bliss_ , wetter noises filling the room as their tongues tangle.

Their both geniuses, and they quickly catch on to what the other likes, particularly after having spent so much time practically joined together, drawing forth light, pleasured noises. Oddly enough, the kiss is rather innocent, teeth clacking together somewhat despite the tentativeness. Even though the younger man has kissed others before, he's still nervous, heart palpitating and palms sweating, as there's something altogether _different_ about doing this with someone he so deeply connected with. The other, for his part, would never let on that he's never done this before, hadn't even thought about it really before meeting the boy before him; however he figures he must be doing something right if the other's warmly flushed cheeks and stuttering breaths are anything to go by.

Both of them are awkward in this, hands not knowing exactly what do do with themsleves, but finally sliding into a glide of skin over skin, nails scratching against denim and rumpling cotton. It isn't enough though, and the brown haired boy pulls back, leaving the other to gasp as the cold air hits his exposed skin. He looks questioningly as the other breaks away and makes his retreat, thumb coming to rest between his lips with the sound of teeth scraping across well worn skin, not sure whether it's hurt or rejection he feels, but knowing that he feels something.

The click of the lock sliding into place is equal parts reassuring and terrifying. He doesn't have time to over think it though, because the toffee haired boy is already striding towards him quickly enough for the swishing of his khaki's rubbing together to be audible. Then they're kissing again, and it's be impossible to determine who moved first, but buttons are being slipped out of their holes and zippers being pulled down ring loudly through the heavy air.

It doesn't matter though, since tongues are once again meeting like old friends and fingers are creeping down under waistbands, fumbling attempts causing elastic to slap lightly against skin. But then their both free from their cloth prisons, delicate bony fingers working in tandem with dextrous tanned ones, spreading the beads of liquid forming with slick sounds. It would be embarrassing if either of them could look back on it without the hazy filter of lust, two people who thought themselves intellectuals rutting against each other in a restroom at their workplace, panting and gasping like teenagers, lewd and wet noises reflected off the walls.

They can't think about it though, brains overridden with need, a different type of electrical signal pulsing throughout their bodies and coiling like fire in their abdomens, magnified and expressed with each satisfied grunt or stifled moan. Soon, their mouths are rendered too uncoordinated to do anything more than press against each other, and the younger man lets his head fall to

the other's shoulder with a muffled groan. Not entirely sure what to do with his newly unoccupied lips, the raven haired boy glances down at skin stretched taught against tendons and muscles, a contemplative hum coming out choked with arousal.

Years of multitasking keep him from being entirely useless, and he dips his head ever so slightly to nip and suck at any of the caramel temptation within reach. He's always had a bit of an oral fixation, and the evidence of it paying off can be felt with every tremble of the throat beneath his mouth. Everything taken together: the slick slide of skin on skin, the fluttering of eyelashes, wet and heat and good, every single action and reaction, the quiet noises just as meaningful as the loud ones; it's all too much, too much stimulation, too much want and need and _feeling_.

They finish together, which should be out of the ordinary, but everything about them is so in sync, even the same needy whimpers of each other's names (assumed or otherwise) as they climax. It's sticky and much more of a mess than what had initially been meant to be cleaned, but it had just been so _good_ that all they can do is smile shakily at each other even as they pant from exertion. Nothing is said, but the atmosphere isn't awkward, both of them coming to a silent agreement, the kind only attainable through quintessentially mutual understanding.

Rustling cloth and clinking metal echo throughout the space again as clothing is put back in order. The bolt of the door is slid back with a click, and they share a final conspiratorial smile before they go to their shared room for a change of clothes. If after their return anyone from the taskforce questions why more than just the tea-soiled shirt has been switched for fresher garments, it's easy enough to explain away as water having been splashed around during cleanup. No one thinks it's out of the ordinary when their infuriatingly childish boss states how that one careless accident had cost the loss of valuable time that could be spent working and that he fully expects the boy chained to him to make it up to him later. It is also hardly out of the ordinary when the indicated party acquiesces easily, the knowing, hopeful glance shared between the two geniuses going unnoticed or at the very least unacknowledged by everyone else.

People disperse back to their respective desks and the room falls into silence once again. Although it isn't really silence, because there is still the soft noises of fans whirring and electricity humming against hushed promises whispered between two people with a newly minted secret.

**Author's Note:**

> Yo. I was doing a little bit of a writing experiment. The concept was everything described through sound and no dialogue, which explains the sentence structure and general semantics. I'm thinking of doing a series in this style, though not necessarily for this pairing. I will, however, do a second chapter of this if requested. Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed! Reviews are much appreciated!


End file.
